


Safe

by Aris_Silverfin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sort of anyway, Weight Gain, chubby!Sherlock, controlling!John, dark!john, feeding up, non con/dub con, paranoid!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Prompt: John is afraid that Sherlock will run off again, and wants to keep him safe (post-Reich AU where Mary isn't a thing), and so he covertly feeds Sherlock up until he's too fat and unfit to chase after criminals anymore.</p><p>This fic took on a rather dark personality. So very dub con/non con and some rather messed up thought patterns within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

He had been happy when Sherlock returned.

Well, maybe that wasn't the primary emotion. Shocked, angry, and betrayed had all been there too. And in a staggering quantity. Still those seemed to dissipate after John punched him. Then there was relief, warmth, and he supposed he should admit it, tears. Thank God that git had come back when he did.

And it was amazing how fast the shrapnel of John's life suddenly seemed to come together as a whole again. The fast-paced chases, the researching into the night, the sharp exchanges, and those clear eyes focused on his own as that magnificent brain spun behind them. God yeah. Life had meaning again. He got through his days of patients at the surgery with greater ease, found the news far less droning when Sherlock was there to throw an odd comment or two in about the anchors secret love affair. John might not be able to see it, himself, but he was smiling again and managed to sleep through the night.

Still there were horrible things that reminded John far too sharply of life before, well life without Sherlock. The man had been effected by his time away, more visibly than John had. The detective had been haggard, unshaven, and painfully thin when he had returned to 221's doorstep. His eyes, while still keen and clever and alive, had looked haunted, more likely to lose focus, drift off into space. John knew that look well.

One good change though: Sherlock was eating. Not just picking at toast that John slid towards him or nibbling on a biscuit with his tea now and again. No, being on the run, constantly hunted, or chased, or threatened for two years seemed to have enhanced Sherlock's appreciation for a good meal. Which was good. He could use a bit of meat on his bones. He seemed to have grown only bonier in his absence. John found an odd calmness in cooking for his detective, planning menus with calorie rich foods that would help Sherlock's body rebuild and recover. The doctor felt a warm glow enter him whenever he sat at the dinner table with Sherlock or brought him a butty and some crisps at lunchtime. The small polite smile, the slight glance of appreciation, were reward enough to make John feel as though he were floating. When the detective tucked in with fervor, John found it harder and harder to look away, proud that his meal was well-received and was being used to heal his flatmate.

Or well, perhaps they were heading towards something more. There seemed to be more touches, more glances between them. John had blamed it initially on being unsure if the man were really there before him again. But no... their small touches seemed only to multiply until it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to plop his feet in John's lap on the sofa or fall asleep against his shoulder. Once or twice he'd even woken up to a shivering Sherlock crawling into bed with him. He'd protested at first, but those had quickly died in his throat when he recognized that wide-eyed and panicked look. Nightmares.

So John let him in. He knew that sometimes all you needed was a warm body beside you to subconsciously feel safer, keep those traumatic memories at bay.

And that was how it came to pass that John first really took notice of Sherlock's improvement. He was less likely to come into contact with a sharp hipbone or scapula nowadays, the bones cushioned under warm flesh. Sherlock's face looked less pinched as well, his eyes brighter and no longer sunken into his skull. His skin took on a healthy flush rather than a deathly pallor and his hair began to regain its sheen. His clothes fit better, he seemed to be in better spirits and more back to his usual experiments (John found himself surprisingly more tolerant of the odd kidney in the salad crisper for some reason). Yes, things were looking up. Except...

John was still worried about the detective. They'd had their first case since Sherlock's returned last week. It was supposed to be a low-key investigation. Something about coded letters arriving for a brother that had recently moved house. Who could have predicted that they would find themselves in the middle of a highly unhappy cultist circle who were quite quick to try to sacrifice the pair of them in their pursuit of some ancient papers or scrolls or what have you? The result was that John and Sherlock wound up captured and it took some very quick thinking and a very good shot to get them out of it. Sherlock had swayed and almost broken down after that. John was nearly out of his mind, hugging the detective to himself so fiercely that he was in danger of bruising his ribs.

"Never again..." John had vowed, "I'll never lose you again."

Sherlock had shuddered and nodded before agreeing, "No. Never."

Then they'd gone home and stuffed themselves full of take away until they were warm and lazy enough to fall asleep on the sofa.

Sherlock had to be kept safe. That much John knew. He needed care, he needed him to look after him. Perhaps it started with John's eagerness to make sure Sherlock had enough flesh on his frame to keep from getting ill, to make sure he was getting all the nutrients he needed. Or perhaps it was more to do with how cooking for the detective offered both of them a sense of domestic bliss and comfort. Whatever the reason, John began cooking even more often, pushing seconds and even thirds onto his flatmate's plate when he could. Which turned out to be most every night.

"Oh, John, I couldn't possibly e-"

"Please, Sherlock? For me? I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I... Alright then."

"Thanks."

The regime wasn't without results of course. Sherlock's frame filled out a bit more. His belly rounded after each meal and he would grunt as he rose and go to lounge on the sofa, nursing his overfull stomach. He became more prone to napping after a meal. John couldn't explain it, but the sight of him, snoring softly on the sofa, his hand perched on the curve of his belly was the most endearing and intriguing sight he had ever seen. It was... comfortable, homey... like Sherlock was well taken care of. Then the doctor would swiftly resume baking whatever treat he had planned for Sherlock's afternoon snack.

The detective took to lounging in his pajamas more often as the days passed, that perfect round little tum pushing ever so slightly against his t-shirt, pooching against his waistband as he sat before his microscope or laptop. John found himself always ensuring that there was a little plate or bowl of sweets or nuts within reach while the man worked. He was pleased to observe that Sherlock was learning to absentmindedly graze. The meals couldn't be enough anymore. Sherlock was getting hungrier. His body needed the extra calories to keep improving.

It wasn't until Sherlock arrived back at the flat one day, huffing and puffing that John really took notice of what his concern had wrought. The man's belly was expanding, round and full, with his breaths, then sagging down to hang over his too tight trousers. Gone was the need for any belt or frequent hitching to keep them on his hips. His jacket puffed open beneath the button, his belly putting some strain on that too.

"Spot of trouble?" asked John, looking concernedly at his detective. His tongue slipped out to moisten his lips unconsciously as he took in the flush on Sherlock's cheekbones.

"N-no," huffed Sherlock, dropping the shopping carelessly on the floor and slumping onto the sofa. John stared as Sherlock's belly jiggled, actually _jiggled_ with the motion. "Just all these d-damn stairs," the detective continued, resting his hand on his round chubby belly again. He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his waist band. The result was that his tum pooched out a bit further.

John chuckled then cleared his throat, doing his best to will away the hot flush that seemed to be creeping up his neck to his ears. He peered at the bag of shopping. "Oi, the milk will just spoil if you leave it out."

Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes.

"Lazy git," John admonished fondly, standing and picking up the milk and the bag of shopping. "Oh, more ice cream? I thought I'd just bought some."

"It's gone," Sherlock yawned, fingers tapping on his belly lazily. John swallowed and quickly went to put the shopping away. Once finished, he allowed himself to lean against the counter and breathe as his mind kept spinning.

So... Sherlock was human. Had the usual human appetites. If overfed, he grew fat... and lazy. John huffed a small laugh to himself. If he was honest, he liked this softer, weightier, more easy-going Sherlock. Maybe he'd always been so cross in the past just because he was always hungry. And the detective certainly enjoyed eating now, no question about it. He was lazier too... he hadn't tried to find a case in nearly a week. And even if he did find one, it would have to be one with a minimum of rooftop chases. John might actually get to the criminal first now if Sherlock's huffing up the stairs were any indication.

John looked up, shocked at the path his thoughts were taking him down. He pursed his lips. It could work. It would be for Sherlock's own good. He couldn't get into any danger if he couldn't chase after murderers. He'd be slower. John could take down there man after Sherlock found him. Or they could send the bloody police after them like any sane person would actually do. John swallowed, his mind suddenly gifting him with an image of a very swollen, overweight, Sherlock gasping as he did his best to waddle after a criminal, his belly bouncing and sagging before he stops again. Then John is there to pat his back and draw an arm around those soft shoulders and lead him into a nice bakery or cafe instead to call the police and give Sherlock a little reward for solving the crime.

Yes... that would be better. Much better. For both of them. John pulled out the largest cooking pot they owned and began preparing an exorbitant amount of Sherlock's favorite pasta.

He did have to wonder if Sherlock even noticed the increased portion sizes. But then they had been steadily creeping up for a while now. John had coaxed out the man's hidden appetite and he was positively ravenous. The doctor began taking a leaf out of Mrs. Hudson's cookbook, or several. Any recipe loaded with butter, sugar, and calories was added to his repertoire. He began melting whole sticks of butter into his dishes, adding extra heavy cream to his sauces before feeding Sherlock. The man only seemed to grow more complimentary as a result as his body responded to those innate pathways to crave fatty, energy-rich foods and then more and more of them.

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock sorely needed a visit to his tailor... again. John was there to ensure that no actual numbers were disclosed, even as the tailor drew a measuring tape around Sherlock's new tummy and hips, the band sinking into soft pale fat. John found himself having to focus on some very gruesome surgeries mid-appointment. It was either that or pop off to the gents, but he couldn't risk Sherlock glancing at himself in the mirror or seeing the numbers on the tape measure. He needed to keep the man occupied. He brought Sherlock to a nearby pastry shop after and ordered every chocolate sort they carried. Once the detective had swallowed them all down with ease and a contented hum, John tugged him out of the booth again and brought him home to laze around on the sofa, his fat gut arching up behind the laptop perched on his softened chest, peeking out between the straining buttons. John rang the tailor later that evening and asked him to add a couple of inches to Sherlock's items. He needed room to grow after all.

Finally, around six months after Sherlock's return, the detective's new clothes were filled and looking snug once more. John and he were at a crime scene that Lestrade had called them out to. The attending officers couldn't help but stare. That is until they met John's eye and they hastily turned away and went about their business. John had called ahead and made it very explicitly clear that any and all who commented on Sherlock's altered physique would be sorry for it. The doctor observed his detective with a tender smile as he bent with a grunt to inspect the floor, his belly hanging, his arse pressing roundly against his trousers, his love handles drooping over the trouser hem. Yes, much better since he'd returned.

Sherlock suddenly straightened with an exuberant bark and made to hurry over to John and Lestrade once again, body wobbling under the absurdly small Belstaff coat he had slung on.

"She's only just left! ha-huh the wo-woman who did this," the detective gasped as he made it over to them, looking winded from just that small effort. "If we go now, we can-hah- we can catch her!" Sherlock huffed and bent to put his hands on his knees but found his coat to pinning and his belly too large to accomplish the gesture.

"I'll have a couple of my officers go. Description?" said Lestrade, calling over two young recruits.

"B-burnette, long. B-brown eyes. She'll be wearing only stockings now, but search a skip nearby for a pair of size 8 heels. Just three streets down." Sherlock said, then straightened and looked to John, "Maybe we should catch a cab."

John smiled proudly, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock's fleshy upper arm. "Yeah good plan. We can stop by that Chinese place and get some take-away on our way. You must be starving." The doctor's smile broadened as the detective's belly grumbled, the response having grown conditioned to his words over the past months.

"Yes... I do believe I am," said Sherlock, frowning slightly as he looked down at his belly and laid a hand over it. John chuckled and patted Sherlock's shoulder again. He let his eyes wander over the altered physique of his friend, listening as the man's belly grew more insistent. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Yes, Sherlock was finally safe.


End file.
